they don't love you like I love you
by mustbethemusic
Summary: "You can't see anything, you can't hear anything, and you can't feel anything except a buzzing in your cheek and a crack in your heart." Unrequited Faberry. Maybe a little angsty.


It's completely selfish to unearth a shocking revelation while at someone else's wedding.

"This is – I mean, I knew you were kind of selfish but...Jesus,"

"I know."

It's even more selfish when the "shocking revelation" is that you're _in love with the bride._

…

You've been healing for almost a year and a half, now, and there's almost no evidence of the accident, except for a sick looking twisted, knotting scar that runs nearly the whole length of your left side. You regained feeling in your legs after about four months of intense physical therapy and even more intense hoping and praying. (The hoping done by you, most of the praying done by your mother.)

You got out of the wheelchair just in time for you to start packing up for Yale, and even though it was hard for you to walk the large campus for a long time with out your legs getting a little shaky, you've adjusted well to the New York lifestyle. (Granted, you live mostly off of the six dollar lunches in the dining hall, but for right now, you're not complaining.)

Kelly, your roommate, has become somewhat of a best friend to you over the past year. The first few months you lived together were spent with both of you in the opposite corners of the room, you reading a book or doing homework and her listening to music or vice-versa. The first time you said anything more than your _Good mornings, _or _Hello_'s and _Goodbye_'s was when you walked into the room after having dinner at – you guessed it, the dining hall – and saw her sitting on her bed, crying as she stared at the book in her lap.

"Holy – are you alright?" You had said.

She had sniffled and said, "Yeah. Yes. This book is just – it was really sad," and you, not knowing what proper roommate etiquette was, plucked a tissue from the box sitting on top of your nightstand and handed her one.

"What was the name of it?" you said, after she had dried her tears and blown her nose and tossed the tissue into the trash can.

"I'm – what?"

"The book. Um, what was the name of your book?"

"Oh, uh. _Looking for Alaska._" You nodded, your mouth curved into a silent 'oh' until a book landed on your comforter, right beside your left foot. "You can borrow it, if you want."

"Yeah. Thanks," you had said, and she had smiled. "Have you ever, um. Have you ever read _Invisible Monsters_?"

She blinked at you. "No. I don't think so."

"It's a – it's a fantastic book," You said. "I could – if you ever wanted to read it, you know. I have it."

"Okay. I mean, yes, I would, if you don't mind –"

"Of course not." You tossed the book over to her and she caught it, her eyes scanning the back cover before she met yours and smiled. "Thanks,"

"No problem."

…

It went from sharing books to sharing music to sharing lunch and going to movies together. You even started taking turns getting each others coffee on Saturday mornings. (Originally,_ you_ just brought _her_ coffee, but then she insisted that the both of you take turns instead. She's handy for those Saturdays that you just _really_ don't want to get out of bed.)

You were in the middle of _Fahrenheit 451 _when your cell phone _bzzt_ed on your nightstand. You reached over, unlocked your phone, and tapped 'read message'. It was from Kelly.

_Got stuck in a lecture :-(. I kno its my week 4 coffee bt I wont be back til like 11:30. sry q!_

_no prob. I'll jst grab it real quick_

You placed your bookmark and dropped your book before you got up, slipped on your shoes, and slipped out the door.

There's a _Starbucks_ right on the edge of Yale, which is super convenient, and you made it across your campus and into the coffee-bean scented warmth of the coffee shop in less than 20 minutes.

"Hey, Q! I thought it was Kelly's turn this week?"

"It was, but she got stuck in a lecture, so. You know,"

"Ah," Theo, the barista, nodded his head. "The usual, then?"

You smiled. "Yeah,"

"Awesome. It'll be right up."

"Thanks, Theo."

You fiddled with the straws and sugar packets that rested in their containers on the table, fingers running over the Splendas and Sweet n Lows and the thin craft sticks that they tried to pass off as coffee stirrers.

"Quinn? Quinn...Fabray?"

You spun around and were met with an eyeful of Rachel Barbra Berry, bang-less and clad in jeans, and a white shirt under a yellow cardigan.

The first thing that came to your mind wasn't _Oh, hey _or _Wow, I haven't seen you in like, a year _or even _How are you?_ No, it was, "I see New York has given you a bit of needed fashion sense." You hoped she knew you were joking, because it came out a little rougher than you meant it to.

Your prayers were answered when she chuckled, and ran her hands down her denim covered thighs. "Thank you, I think."

"You're welcome." Then after a beat you added, "I think."

It's not that you didn't want to see Rachel. She was practically glued to your hip (well, _wheel_) the last half of senior year, and it's not that you didn't appreciate her friendship; you really did. (Even if you know it was partly because she felt guilty and wanted to clear her conscience. Which, whatever. No one ever claimed that Rachel Berry was completely selfless _all the time._) But after making the semi-drunken plans for her to visit you at Yale and you to visit her at NYADA that never actually commenced (which, again,_ whatever_. Like either of you were stupid enough to actually go through that alcohol-influenced, half-slurred plan), you kind of let everything in your old life slip out of your mind (including her) and let everything Yale and New York slip in.

"So, do you come here often?" Rachel had said, and when she pinkened you raised an eyebrow at her. "I meant this coffee shop. Do you come to this coffee shop often."

"Not really. Like, every other Saturday."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Yo, Q! Order up!"

"Thanks," you reached over and cupped the two drinks that Theo slid across the counter at you.

"Do you, um. You don't have to be anywhere, do you?"

You glanced at your watch. 9:43. "Not at the moment."

"Would you...?" Rachel gestured to a table.

You nodded. "Sure."

…

It wasn't until two hours and four lattes later that you took notice of the gleam on Rachel's left ring finger.

"Are you...engaged?"

She bit back a smile. "Yes."

"Oh." You cleared your throat. "So, um, who's the lucky guy, then?"

She mumbled something into her cup and you had to ask her to speak up three times before she finally set her vanilla soy latte on the table and said, "Finn. I'm – Finn."

"_Again_?"

"Yes, Quinn. Again. Since...well."

"Right," you said. "Well, hopefully I won't ruin your wedding this time." You laughed.

"That's not –"

"It's fine, Rachel."

"Okay," she said, but you could tell she didn't honestly believe you. "Oh! That reminds me..." She reached over and pulled a heavily decorated piece of paper out and handed it to you. On the front, in elegant script, was _Save The Date._

"Is this – " you brought the card to your nose. "- scented?"

"Lavender," Rachel responded.

"Wow," you said, because you honestly didn't trust yourself to say anything else without slipping _What the fuck are you doing trying to marry Finn Hudson again you almost ruined your life once Jesus Christ woman _in there. "That's, um. Wow."

You flipped open the card. "June 15. That's – wow, in like, three months."

Rachel nodded, obviously not sensing your obvious lack of enthusiasm. "It is. I've always wanted to be a June bride."

"That's, um. That's great, Rach. But um – what made you and Finn decide to..." attempt to ruin both of your lives for the second time/ "...try again?"

Rachel left an hour later, after going through a very detailed (and most likely slightly exaggerated) story of how Finn drove up to NYADA for a weekend, gave some long-winded speech (that Kurt probably co-wrote), then got down on one knee and proposed for the second time.

You're still not sure if it really was all those lattes, or if it was something else entirely, but you were queasy for the rest of the day.

…

"This is crazy. _You're _crazy. Christ, Quinn. This is fucking insane." Kelly whispers, fidgeting nervously in the seat next to you. "Quinn – "

"I object." You say, ignoring her, hands balled into fists at your sides.

"On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that I..." You swallow. Everyone's eyes are on you and a bead of sweat pops out above your brow. "On the grounds that I'm in love with the bride."

There is a collective gasp, making the situation much more dramatic than need be (Rachel invited some NYADA friends; you don't know what you expected) and when no one says anything or _moves_ you sputter. "I'm, um. Well."

"Quinn." Rachel's voice is calm and nearly devoid of all emotion. "Can I speak to you – alone, for a moment?"

"I – yeah." You follow her back down the aisle and out of the church's huge front double doors into a lobby of some sort.

When you look at her, Rachel's just staring at you, looking beautiful as ever in her pure, white, sleeveless dress. She crosses her arms and puts her head down. You don't notice that she's crying until her shoulders are shaking violently and a sob bubble up from her mouth.

You step forward and rest a hand on her arm. "Hey, Rachel, I'm –"

The sting registers before the sound of palm meeting cheek rings in your ears.

"What the fuck, Quinn. What the _fuck?_"

"I'm –" You cut yourself off, because you're not sorry, and you're putting her through enough right now without lying to her, too.

"You're what? You're _what?_" She hisses. "What the hell – you made the first two and a half years of my high school experience a living hell, Quinn. Wasn't that enough? Did you have to ruin my _wedding day_, too?"

"I wasn't – trying to."

"You weren't trying to? You weren't trying – what the hell do you call objecting to a marriage, Quinn? Livening up the party?" She's angry. She's furious. It makes you want to pee your pants and slap yourself at the same time because Kelly was right. That was fucking insane. What the fuck were you thinking?

You were thinking that you were madly in love with a girl who was about to 'I do' her way to a miserable life. But, no. There were better ways to go about this. A couple months after the wedding. At the reception, maybe. _Before _the wedding.

Holy shit, what the _fuck did you just do?_

"I – "

"You think you – you can just waltz in, on my wedding day, and proclaim your undying love for me? And that everything would be just fine and dandy?"

"No."

"Then why – do you even know why you did it? Was it just one last hurrah to try and fill _every chapter_ of my life with bad memories?"

Your throat's closing up. You feel like you can't breathe. You are claustrophobic, but the ceiling is like, thirty feet high, and the walls aren't even that close together.

"No." It takes so much just to squeeze that tiny little word out.

"Then _why _–"

"I love you," a wetness gathers in your eyes, and you're not sure if it's from your still-stinging cheek or something else. "I love you, Rachel."

"Stop it." She looks like she's going to be sick. "Stop it, Quinn."

"I love you, okay? And – and marrying Finn, that isn't going to change anything."

"It should," she says. "It should because – I'm going to spend the _rest of my life_ with Finn. I am."

"Don't," Christ, you're selfish. You're so so _so _selfish.

"Quinn." and she says it with such finality that it makes you suck in a deep breath.

"Don't, Rachel –"

"I'm going to go in there and I'm going to get married," Rachel says. "And I don't – I don't want you to come with me."

"_Rachel_,"

"I'm sorry, Quinn," she says, and she looks it. She really, really does. And when she reaches up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to your red cheek, you can't stop the tears that spill out of your eyes and blur your vision.

And then Rachel's gone, the huge doors shutting behind her, and you're on your knees in the middle of St. Andrew's Church. You can't see anything, you can't hear anything, and you can't feel anything except a buzzing in your cheek and a crack in your heart.

…

**I don't own Glee, Looking for Alaska, Fahrenheit 451, Starbucks, or anything else mentioned above. **


End file.
